As usual, the Albuquerque Pride Parade 2016 edition was a complicated act of beauty.
He’s full of quick smirks at howling audience members, booty-shaking iron-stomping tango beats.
Since I was about 10, when someone’s asked me how I’m doing, I felt obliged to lie politely.
Unlike the poem, which requires you add everything before you can think about removing things, the photograph achieves through reduction.
If you have a regular gig—for me, Poetry & Beer photography—you’re probably familiar with this problem.
Last year’s March Against Monsanto was a big deal, and the afterparty in Tiguex Park was a blast. This year’s was a worthy successor.
A year ago, when Don and I pulled out of Rich’s mountain driveway, and began the sleep-haggered drive back to Albuquerque, I knew.
An opportunity came to visit the Bay Area, where my boy and his family live, which was too good to pass on.
Jenny Phy had turned this hip, minimalist coffee shop into a bustling, mid-’60s mod living room. With records everywhere.
I had a date. She mentioned this Bernie Sanders & César Chávez rally, just a mile and a half from my house.
My mother’s cousin, Gina, was dying. She knew this. We knew this. She’d been making her peace with the aggressive return of an aggressive cancer for over a year.
The Ramblers’ last show was at Low Spirits, in February. I went to make sure we could all remember it a little more clearly.